Dirty Minds, page 11
‘‘Why the big sigh, mate?’
He looked up guiltily. Surreptitiously he turned his hips so as to conceal his state of arousal. ‘‘Hi, Johnny. Just the end of a long day, I suppose. How are you doing?’
Before he could answer, the telephone on the counter rang. He reached for it.
‘‘Reception.’
A husky voice came back down the receiver, sending a shiver down his spine.
‘‘I’m calling from Room 44. There’s no water in the minibar. Would you be a dear and bring me up some?’
‘‘Of course, at once.’ He dropped the receiver as if it was hot. ‘‘Room 44 wants a bottle of water. If you’re here to stay, I’ll take it up. Then I’ll call it a night.’
‘‘Fine with me. You have a good rest now.’
He arrived at room 44 in record time. The bottle of water was fresh from the fridge and mercifully cold. He wrapped both hands around it to stop them sweating. He realised he was trembling as he knocked on the door. He saw that it was ajar.
‘‘Come in.’ Her voice was indistinct.
He pushed the door open and went in. The only light came from a bedside lamp and through the half-open bathroom door. He looked round the room, but could not see her.
‘‘That is you, isn’t it?’ She was in the bathroom.
‘‘Um, yes. I’ve brought the water.’
‘‘Close the door. I’ll be right out.’
He pushed the door to behind him and placed the bottle on the table. He was almost paralysed with anticipation. Seconds later she appeared.
His immediate reaction was one of disappointment. She was still fully clothed. In his mind’s eye he had imagined her naked.
‘‘How very kind.’ She walked over towards him. ‘‘You go off-duty at midnight, don’t you?’
He cleared his throat. ‘‘Yes, yes I do.’
‘‘So you are off-duty now?’
‘‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘‘Sit down on the bed.’
He obeyed instantly. He sat, transfixed, as his dream came true.
She began to strip.
Her elegant hands reached for the buttons on her blouse. One by one she undid them. She pulled the shirt open and let it fall off her shoulders onto the floor. She shook her auburn hair and smiled down at him.
‘‘All right so far?’ It was little more than a whisper.
He nodded, unwilling to trust his voice.
Her hands slid down to the zip at the side of the skirt. It opened and she shrugged it off. Now she was clothed in just a lacy black bra, a minute g-string and stockings. She stepped towards him until the g-string was inches from his face. Her perfume filled his nostrils.
‘‘Will you help me with my stockings?’ She raised one leg and placed her foot on the bed beside him, her thighs opening as she did so. He could see the outline of her, through the near transparent material. He reached for the top of her stocking.
‘‘Roll it.’
He rolled the fine nylon slowly down her leg, past her knee to her ankle, and lifted her foot for him to slip the stocking off. He leant forward and ran his lips along the inside of her thigh. She sighed deeply.
‘‘And the other one.’
He repeated the process. She did not step away after the second stocking fell to the floor. He reached towards her and ran his tongue all the way up to her leg. Her hands caught his neck and pulled him towards her.
‘‘The bra. Think you can manage it? I’ll give you a clue, it’s a front fastener.’
He reached up with his hands and caught hold of the clip. He pulled it open and watched as it fell to the floor. She bent forward, allowing him to take her hard nipples in his hands. He rolled them in his fingers and then took each in turn in his mouth.
‘‘You do that very well.’ ‘‘But haven’t you forgotten something?’ She straightened up and moved so close to him that the black lace of her pants rubbed against his face. ‘‘With your teeth, please.’
He gripped the thin elastic in his teeth and pulled downwards. After a few inches, it stuck. He transferred his attention to the other side. Gradually, alternating from side to side, the g-string slid off. She moved her feet apart; the g-string fell to the floor, and he heard a gasp escape her throat as his hand crept back up her thigh.
‘‘Oh, God’ was all he could find to say.
Tom was counting again. Ticking them off in his head, he added the stories up silently, not wishing to disturb her. She seemed engrossed in her reading.
‘There’s the Butler’s tale, the Roman romp, the Marquise, the Farewell to Arms, the cavemen and this rather unsavoury bit of Indian sadism. That’s six.’ So what was Ros reading, then? As he considered the question, he suddenly realised the magnitude of his blunder. Oh dear Lord, what had he done? He would have reached out and torn his story from her grasp but he could see that she was already on the final page. She was bent forward, chin in hand, glued to the print. She didn’t look up. He found himself remembering what he had written in the last few paragraphs. Her bare breasts, her nipples and, God help him, the pants pulled off with his teeth.
He glanced down at his hand and saw that it was shaking. Hastily he pressed it down on top of the other stories. Too late, he saw the sweaty mark it left on the top sheet. His throat was dry. He reached for his mug and drained the last remnants of the tea. It took two hands to return it to the tabletop without it flailing around wildly.
The ticking of the kitchen clock was the only sound. He hardly dared to breathe. He found himself counting the seconds. He realised that his heart was beating almost exactly twice as fast as the clock. He wondered idly if this meant he was going to have a heart attack. It would, at least, be a way out of this mess.
She cleared her throat and he jumped. But still she hadn’t finished. For a moment he wondered if she was feeling anything like he was. The top of her head gave nothing away. Her hair was hanging forward, concealing her face from him.
She let the last page fall closed. The noise of the paper drew his attention. She looked up and caught his eye. He blushed to his roots.
‘Oh dear God. That was just a trial run. You weren’t meant to read that. Oh bloody hell, Ros.’ His voice was little more than a croak. He swallowed hard.
‘I’m glad you like the shirt. It’s Kenzo. I’ve had it for years, but I still love it.’ Her voice was only gently mocking. She laid the story on the pile. ‘Pity it’s only a thousand words. You were just beginning to get into your stride. You are a bit of a slow starter, you know.’
‘More tea?’
‘Without question.’
He busied himself with the kettle. As he collected the mugs from the table, he saw that she had started to read the Indian story. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find that one a bit hard going.’
She nodded, once again immersed in her reading. The thought crossed his mind that she was maybe as embarrassed as he was.
He dumped the old teabag and refilled the teapot. As he was replacing the kettle, he heard her mobile phone.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Tom. Do you mind if I get this?’
‘By all means.’ He opened the fridge door and took out the bottle of milk.
‘Darling, how lovely to hear from you.’ Her voice was warm and animated. His ears pricked up.
‘That’s wonderful news … Next Wednesday? Oh, you mean tomorrow? Why yes, it would be wonderful. You must come here to see my country residence … Don’t forget that it’s not quite in the same league as yours … Don’t be silly, it’s in the middle of nowhere, of course you must stay … No, I wouldn’t hear of it. You are very welcome. What’s that? Are you really? How wonderful. I look forward to hearing all about it tomorrow … Around teatime? Perfect. I’ll text you the address and the postcode. Your satnav will get you here, don’t worry … Drive safely … And I love you too. Bye, Fonsie.’
Tom realised that he had just filled one of the mugs to the top with milk. It was overflowing onto his fingers. He hastened to pour the excess away, unobserved, while she was still putting her phone away. He wiped his hand on a tea cloth and ventured a question.
‘Old friend?’
‘Very old. That’s Fonsie. He has loved me and courted me since I first trod the catwalk. I’ve lost count of the bunches of flowers … What am I saying? I mean the huge bouquets he has sent me over the years.’
‘And he’s coming to stay?’ Tom began to feel slightly sick.
‘Tomorrow night. I’ll do dinner for him. Will you come along as well?’
‘Erm, to play gooseberry?’
She laughted. ‘Gooseberry to Fonsie? Tom, darling, he just so totally isn’t the man for me.’
‘Another cricketer?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Definitely not. His bed head has more notches on it than Casanova’s. He told me once he had lost count before his thirtieth birthday. Even I don’t know his age, but he won’t see sixty again, so the total must be astronomical by now.’
Tom began to feel a bit less insecure. ‘And he’s coming to stay?’
Something in his voice must have given him away. ‘Tom, if it makes you feel better, I promise not to wear the grey shirt and the ridiculously short black skirt.’ He almost dropped the mugs of tea. She relented. ‘You will see what I mean when you meet him. He is not the man for me.’
There was a pause during which he turned over in his head whether this was the moment to ask something along the lines of ‘Am I the sort of man for you?’ He still had not reached a decision when she decided it was time to carry on her tale.
‘Fonsie is a sweetie. I’m sure you will love him. He’s unbelievably rich. So rich he doesn’t even know himself how much he’s got. I think he originally came from Tuscany or somewhere around there. His family monopolised the Pope market throughout much of the Middle Ages. He’s got castles and villas all over Italy, not to mention the rest of the world. Now he tells me he’s just bought a little place in Dorset. Knowing Fonsie, that will be around the size of Buckingham Palace.’
‘So how do you know him?’ He handed her a mug of tea and sat down at the table again.
‘He also owns one of the most important fashion houses in the world. You ever heard of Camaleonte?’ She saw from his face that, even down here in Devon, the name was familiar. ‘That’s his. I’ve done quite a bit for them over the years. That’s how I know him.’
He sipped his tea. It was too hot, so he set it down. He did his best to adopt a businesslike air.
‘So, the stories. Which ones haven’t you read? And which ones haven’t I read?’
She shuffled the pile. ‘I make it that you still have to read the wartime one, while I have the pleasure of the cavemen to come.’
‘You’ll love that. Quite different from the Indian one. What did you think?’
‘Definitely very disturbing. That business with the chains and the harness hanging from the ceiling – that was seriously creepy. I would guess that the woman who wrote that is very familiar with that sort of thing. That is, if it is a woman writing.’
‘I thought the same. Her description of the joy of inflicting pain was disconcerting. Of all the stories I’ve read so far, she comes across as the real sadistic McCoy. Mind you, I couldn’t fault the writing. Good grammar, broad vocabulary and precious few adverbs.’
‘You don’t like adverbs, do you?’
‘How did you guess? I suppose it’s a fixation I have. That and apostrophes.’
‘You’d love my plumber. He sends invoices to Ms Rosalind Water-apostrophe-s.’
‘I blame it on the comprehensive system, or the television, or the Americans. Or a combination of all three.’ Catching her eye, he subsided. ‘Sorry, grumpy old man mode. I seem to be finding it easier and easier to slip into it.’
‘I’ll have to keep an eye on that.’
‘One thing, Ros. You just said you wondered if the writer of the Indian thing was a woman. I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose there might well be a man behind one or more of these pieces. We have no way of telling.’
‘Up to a point. Sometimes it’s quite clear. At the risk of offending my possible future co-author, I don’t think yours could have been written by a woman.’
‘Really, what makes you say that?’
‘Just that it is all from the man’s point of view. There’s no explanation as to why she is seducing him. There’s no mention of her feelings before or during the act. Men tend to be very self-centred about these things. He sees her as an object, or at least that’s the way it reads.’
Tom’s stomach churned. What on earth had he done? The more he thought about it, he knew she was right. And now she would be convinced that he saw her in the same light.
‘Oh dear. That certainly wasn’t my intention. I suppose the reason it is just through his eyes, is that he is so totally in awe of this wonderful woman. He doesn’t say what she’s thinking because he doesn’t know and he doesn’t dare to ask.’
‘So you are saying that he is afraid of her?’ They were sailing into dangerous waters now.
‘Erm, yes, I suppose I am. He isn’t familiar with such beauty or such blatant sexuality.’
‘So, you see, for him, it’s just purely physical attraction: she is beautiful; she wants sex, so he leaps at the opportunity. He’s purely after her body, not what’s inside.’
Tom was rooted to the spot. He searched for a response but was sensible enough to realise that when you are in a hole it is best to stop digging.
‘But, it’s just a story, after all.’ She tried, unsuccessfully, to lighten the tone.
‘Shall we read the last two?’ He picked up the tale of wartime lust and read it through, without registering the words. She sat down to Ten Million Years Ago.
Once again, the only sound in the kitchen was the clock. Surreptitiously, he tried to work on his breathing to slow his heart rate. Her voice made him jump.
‘I would be prepared to put money on the cavemen story being the work of a man.’
Delighted to be able to talk about something that wasn’t going to result in further embarrassment he raised his eyes.
‘You got that feeling, too, did you? So Ariadne may not be all that she seems. And the same applies to the Indian Torturer.’
‘I think the others are the work of women. The butler’s tale, definitely, and the war story too. Oh yes, and the Marquise; I’m sure that was written by a woman.’
She stood up. Sophie the spaniel was at her side in a flash. Tom, wisely, stayed seated, concerned he’d be assaulted again.
‘Anyway, you’ve got a lot of thinking to do now. I’ll leave you to it. If I don’t bump into you in the field before, I’ll expect you at sevenish tomorrow. Bye, Noah.’
Tom grunted a few incoherent words as she closed the door behind her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Tom didn’t know much about cars but he could recognise a Ferrari when he saw one. And there was a squat, yellow Ferrari parked outside Ros’s house as he walked up, a bottle of good Burgundy in his hand. He stopped to admire it. It was a beautiful object but, alas, there was a nasty scratch down the left-hand side.
‘That’s going to cost him,’ he murmured through his teeth, as he rang the doorbell.
The door was answered by a tall, handsome man, wearing a white pullover and immaculate beige trousers. Discounting his initial reaction at seeing a cricket jumper, Tom held out his hand.
‘Buona sera. Mi posso presentare? Mi chiamo Tommaso. Sono un amico di Rosalind.’
‘Magnifico. Che piacere.’ They shook hands. At the same time the Italian shouted over his shoulder to Ros, in fine American English. ‘Rosalind, mia cara, you didn’t tell me your nice neighbour spoke Italian like an Italian.’ He stepped to one side and waved Tom in. ‘Prego, prego. Si accommodi.’
Tom stepped into the kitchen, the bottle of wine strategically held in front of him. The spaniel made a lunge at him, tail wagging furiously, but his makeshift shield worked well. He calmed her down and patted her head.
‘Tom, come over here so I can say hello.’ He looked up from the dog. Steam was rising from a series of pans on the stove. In the midst of the cloud, he saw Ros. She looked wonderful. He went over to her, as commanded.
Her shirt was white linen, open at the neck. Her jeans were an immaculate fit and she was wearing heels. She had swept her hair up, revealing tiny gold earrings. He breathed deep.
‘Hello, you.’ She was wearing oven gloves. ‘Careful, I’m sticky.’ She reached across and gave him a decorous kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks for the wine. There’s some open on the table. Help yourself to a glass.’
‘Can I help?’
‘No thanks. I’ve got myself into this mess, I’ll get myself out of it.’
‘Here,’ he saw her glass on the worktop and picked it up. ‘You will find that this helps.’ He held it to her lips as she took a mouthful, his eyes glued on hers. They seemed even greener than usual in the steam.
‘Feeling better already. Now go and talk to Fonsie.’
Tom went over to the table. The Italian had already poured him a glass of golden wine. He saw the Grand Cru label and knew it would be special.
‘Grazie. Salute.’
‘Cin cin, Tommaso.’
The two men stood and chatted in Italian. Tom loved the language and the country. Having spent a good few years of his life there, he enjoyed any opportunity to speak it. He told Fonsie about his time in the north and in Tuscany. Mention of Florence set the Italian off on a eulogy that was only interrupted by the arrival of Ros.
‘I’m a terrible hostess. Fonsie, this is my neighbour, Tom Marshall. Sorry, I should say Professor Tom Marshall. Tom, may I present Count Alfonso dei Conti di Segni.’ She held up her glass and proposed a toast. ‘Welcome to my home, both of you. It is wonderful to be with such good friends.’
Count Alfonso clinked his glass with both of theirs and then hastened to top them all up.
‘This is the most amazing wine. Where did you get it?’ Tom was very impressed.
Ros pointed to the Italian. ‘He makes it.’
